Training
by 221Bme
Summary: John notices something that gives him an unexpected look into his flatmate's past. (Warning, self harm fic)


John should be used to it by this time.

It shouldn't be strange anymore when Sherlock went traipsing around the flat with little more than a bedsheet for an outfit.

And it wasn't, really. At least, not compared to all the other odd things the consulting detective did. So when he emerged from his room Sunday morning sporting the very latest in bed covering fashion, John didn't even raise an eyebrow.

"Sleep well?" John took a sip of his coffee, attempting to flip the page of his paper with his one free hand.

Sherlock mumbled something through a yawn, and ran a hand through his curls on the way to the kitchen, trailing a corner of sheet on the floor behind him. By the time he'd returned with a cup of coffee he seemed to have woken up enough to have regained the power of speech, and glanced at the article John was reading.

"Any cases?"

"I'll assume you mean from the blog, as I doubt you'd be interested in 'solving' the 'case of the new _animal shelter grand opening_.'" John let the paper fall flat on his lap.

"No…"

"No to which?" A smirk tugged at John's lips. "We could always get you a toad or something."

"Ah, good you reminded me… don't open the bottom drawer, in the refrigerator."

John's smirk faltered a bit, replaced by a furrowed brow. "…what?"

Sherlock didn't answer, and instead shuffled over to his chair, where he settled comfortably, pulling the sheet tighter around himself and shutting his eyes.

Silence reigned over the flat for the next five or so minutes, with John hesitantly going back to his paper. The morning sunlight that came slanting through the windows was already climbing higher, rising slowly from the floor to begin sliding up the chair legs and bookshelves around them.

When at last John looked up again Sherlock's eyes were still closed, and he had leaned back in his chair in a pose the doctor could now read quite easily: _'BORED.'_ John was about to speak when his eyes fell on a spot on Sherlock's ankle, in a spot usually covered up by trousers, which made him stop and frown.

 _Had those little white lines always been there?_

 _Were those…_ scars?

 _If so… why were they so symmetrical? And… in even numbers…?_

Sherlock clearly hadn't noticed him looking, and without thinking John cleared his throat.

The doctor was staring at him when Sherlock opened his eyes.

It was in that moment that John instantly wished he'd given more thought to what he was going to say before catching his attention. But it was too late now… Sherlock was already waiting.

"Hm?" The detective moved nothing more than his eyes, watching him expectantly, if a bit languidly.

At last John managed to speak. "Er… I, uh…"

" _What?_ "

"On your ankle… are those… scars?" It slipped out before John had time to stop it.

For a few seconds Sherlock didn't respond, still just staring at him quietly. Then realization seemed to dawn on him, and though he didn't look away, John could practically see the doors closing behind his eyes.

The silence seemed to stretch on for ages.

When Sherlock spoke, it was surprisingly nonchalant.

"Yes."

He let his eyes shut again, so that it all went back to the way it had been a few minutes ago, as if nothing had ever happened.

As if nothing had been said.

 _As if it didn't matter._

John sat up, ignoring the paper slipping from his lap and onto the floor as he leaned forward in his armchair. "Sherlock. _Open your eyes._ "

The detective didn't comply, but mumbled again in a languid response.

" _Sherlock._ "

Finally he did open them, raising his gaze lazily in a silent question. The casualness of his reactions bothered John, but he wasn't sure exactly how to express it. Or even if he should.

They just stared for a moment.

John tried not to look at the scars again.

"What…" The doctor suddenly realised he was still holding his coffee cup, and carefully set it on the table beside him. He kept his voice controlled, purposely quiet. "What are you… I mean… Are those... _were_ those... _self inflicted?_ "

"...Obviously."

John's words stuck in his throat like paper cutouts, and he had to stop, swallow, and try again. "But... why... Er, why would you-"

"Training." Sherlock cut him off brusquely.

"What? _Training?_ What the hell is that supposed to—"

"Training my body to not need." He held John steadily in his sights, almost daring him to say something. "It was a long time ago."

 _What could he…_

 _What was he supposed to…_

"You can't just… To not need what, exactly? Food? Sleep? …Anything? _What?_ And what do you mean by that anyway?!"

Sherlock tilted his head a bit. "All of the above. And yes, I _can_. I _did_. It's simple. Whenever my body complained, asking for something it didn't need _yet..._ " He paused. "I... reprimanded it. I taught it to not want."

John opened his mouth, and then shut it. His eyes flicked down to the scars again, and then very quickly away.

 _This couldn't be…_

"But… Sherlock—that's… not…"

"Not what?" Sherlock's eyes had narrowed, and his mouth was a hard line.

"It's not…" _What could he say? Not healthy? Not normal?_ _Not… good?_ John stopped, and swallowed. "You said it was a long time ago. How long…?"

"Twenty-four years ago." He finally looked away, giving a small shrug. "It worked. It's fine."

"No, Jesus—It's _not fine_ — _it's…_ " John's eyes widened, his brows furrowed. "You would have been…" He calculated quickly, and then looked up at him in shock again. " _Twelve?!_ Jesus… Sher… No wonder…"

" _No wonder what?_ " Sherlock snapped, finally pushing himself up in his chair. There was a cold defensiveness on his face, a sort of practiced frost.

"I mean…" John took a moment, shutting his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts. "That's… not… good. Normal twelve year olds… don't do that."

"I'm not normal. Tell me something I don't kn—"

"Happy twelve year olds. Is what I meant to say. What I should have said."

Sherlock remained frozen there momentarily, his eyes flicking back and forth uncomfortably. He licked his lips. Finally he sighed. "…tell me something I don't know."

John's coffee had gone cold.

But he didn't notice. It didn't matter anymore.

The sun was already high in the sky, and the morning had somehow already nearly passed.

Before John could think of a suitable reply, Sherlock had heaved himself up from his chair, wrapping his sheet more securely around himself. "Like I said before, it worked. It was a long time ago. It doesn't matter anymore." He let out a resigned sounding breath. "I'm going to get dressed."


End file.
